Before long, as he usually did, Dr. James Henschen ambled down the sidewalk and found his chair, all of us eager for new tales from the barn. Inevitably, Doc’s pager would buzz.

“Got to go to the airport and pick up a batch of stallion semen,” he would say.

Well, of course. Doesn’t everybody go to the airport to pick up stallion semen?

Doc easily was one of the most interesting men I’ve ever known. An icon among the nation’s dwindling breed of large-animal veterinarians, Doc specialized in taking care of horses. There was no one better at it.

Herb Kohler, CEO of the Kohler Company, which makes faucets for your house, often flew Doc up to Wisconsin when he had problems at his breeding facility for Morgan horses.

Doc was always the man to talk to before placing a bet on the Kentucky Derby or the Little Brown Jug. He not only knew the horses but could tell you which stallion and mare hooked up to produce them. We once went to the Jug in Delaware with Doc and Jean, and it was like being in the company of royalty.

Doc, 74, was diagnosed with esophageal cancer in May and died at 11:43 p.m. on Sept. 18, 17 minutes before the day of the 68 {+t}{+h} race for the Little Brown Jug. At the track that day, his death was announced to a stunned crowd, and a moment of silence was observed.

“He was the James Herriot of his generation,” the Rev. David Redding said at Doc’s funeral, referring to the pen name of the famed British veterinary surgeon whose treasured writings often are referred to collectively as All Creatures Great and Small.

Please pardon the diversion from this column’s usual political drivel. Given the nonsense emanating from Washington last week, I thought you’d appreciate reading about a genuine man who lived a practical life devoted to taking care of people and their animals rather than the politicians whose selfish ideology has shut down our government and is hurting people.

It’s not that Doc was apolitical; he once served a term on Westerville City Council and the local planning commission. But he was wise enough not to mix politics with business. “He had his opinions but seldom voiced them outside our door,” said Jean, a retired Westerville teacher and his wife of 53 years.

Calling hours for Doc at the Moreland Funeral Home in Westerville were extended nearly three hours to accommodate the line snaking around the building, including the seven Amish men who had entrusted their horses to Doc.

“What I loved about him was that he practiced — it wasn’t for the money, it was for the animals,” said Dr. Linda Morrison, who worked with Doc for nine years, one of the legions of vets who learned from him during his 50 years of practice.

Dr. Steve Reed, who taught veterinary medicine at Ohio State University for 27 years, said Doc’s death was “a huge loss for the horse world,” adding, “He just did things in such a logical and practical way, but he always knew what was on the cutting edge. He was unafraid to challenge dogma, and yet he had the charisma of a down home, backyard vet.”

When they were little, Doc’s daughters, Jodi and Jill, sometimes would go on barn calls with him. “My dad knew every pothole, rut and back country road in Delaware, Knox, Licking, Union and Morrow counties,” recalled Jodi, saying the smell of hay — and manure — “reminds me of my dad.”

A glass-walled carriage pulled by two majestic black Percheron horses took Doc’s ashes from the funeral home to the cemetery. It was what he wanted.